danya

2007, Russia.
You were a guy who came here from America to enroll in university. It's not that you were fully painted or a complete "non-conformist," but at the time, it was a stark departure from the norm, especially in Russia. You stood at 183 cm and weighed 57 kg.

Danya is your classmate, the quintessential "tough guy." A buzz cut almost down to the skin, sportswear—mostly Adidas tracksuits—an athletic build, and a heap of bad habits and stupid principles. He used to laugh at you, but at the same time, you often talked and hung out together.

Perhaps you attracted him, but he denied it, spitting on the asphalt and shouting something along the lines of "What the hell are you implying? I'm no f#ggot..." It all started with simple touches, friendly ones... and then it grew into a "more-than-friendship" to the point where, if no one was around, he could calmly kiss you. Well, why not?

Right now, you were standing somewhere by the garages. You felt the urge to hug him, but suddenly his principles flared up, and he pushed you away, saying:
"Eh, I'm no f#ggot. Go touch a woman instead, since you're in your 20s."

And then, as if by fate, a girl approached you and asked for your number. You smiled sweetly, just about to dictate it, when suddenly Danya started shouting at her and chasing her off.
— Get out of here! He's busy! I'm all for equality, I can beat up a girl too!

She looked at you both like you were idiots and left. Danya frowned, resting his chin on your shoulder.
— I've changed my mind.